I had a lot of bad luck in my life. I was left early with my father, who saw nothing but the bottle, and I had to run around since high school looking for part-time jobs. At university I worked hard to keep my scholarship and at least pay for my dormitory. I dated girls, who fed me and helped me get by somehow. And at twenty-one, I met fifty-year-old Rebecca. She was a professor at our university, but from a different department, and it did our relationship good. She liked me and took advantage of it. I knew about her marriage from the beginning, but I didn’t care much for her husband as long as we went out to restaurants and she slipped me some money.
I thought it was a short affair that would soon end, but Rebecca fell in love with me like a girl. She took care of me in every way, provided for me and let me live in the apartment she had inherited from her mother. I was ambivalent about it: the apartment was better than the dormitory, Rebecca delivered groceries once a week, we spent time together, and on the other hand, I began to dislike her company. I forced myself to smile at her and tell her that I loved her, when in fact I could barely stand her.
During the four months of this free-living relationship, I found a good new part-time job, my studies got easier, and everything seemed to be going well, but Rebecca’s husband found out about everything because of our correspondence. He filed for divorce, and Rebecca is happy about it. She is packing to move in with me and live together. She has no other apartment but this one, and she doesn’t want it. She thinks we will live happily together as a couple, but it is one thing to meet her once a week and quite another to live together. I’m not ready to marry a fifty-year-old, and I hadn’t thought about that at all. I don’t know what to do now – move out before it’s too late, or endure to get back on my feet while I have such a sponsor?
